


fire bares all

by antagonists



Category: Tekken
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: A man at sunrise, a man at dusk.





	fire bares all

**Author's Note:**

> [mu](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mu_\(shaman\))/[muism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korean_shamanism) are the kr parallels to jp [onmyouji](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Onmy%C5%8Dd%C5%8D)/[shinto](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinto). not quite the basis for this piece, but somewhat of an inspiration (along w e.asian mythology as usual)  
>  crows: bad omens in korea, good luck in japan

* * *

 

 

 

There is something on the cold stone floor, something with wings, something with angry black scripts all over its body.

 

“Oh, damn,” Hwoarang curses as he draws closer, not expecting the face of a mere _man_. The stench of dried blood would be overwhelming if he weren’t so used to it. He prods at one eyelid, almost jerks back at the bright, bright iris beneath. A dark presence nudges at his fingers, demanding to be channeled into something lethal.

 

He has heard of humans like this, inflicted with states of being so individual and unkind that they manifest in more than just the spiritual plane. He’s never though he would actually meet one, and well, he’d only feel guilty leaving a pretty face like that to rot.

 

When the man wakes, he staggers to his feet like someone possessed—which isn’t entirely wrong. Hwoarang swats at him with a small branch, unamused at the spells scratched into the soil being smudged into something ineligible. He’d worked hard on those.

 

“Sit down,” he orders, staring madness straight in the face. The sun is setting, leaving the forest tinted an odd blend of red. The light from the campfire doesn’t help the eeriness of the place, but he’s long grown accustomed to long nights in demon-infested wilderness. Most undesirable, corrupted beasts dislike the tinted flames, repulsed by the smell of sage and the talismans tied to his belt. “You can’t walk into a village looking like that.”

 

Bewildered, the man does as he is told. He stares at Hwoarang, cautiously flexing his wings and pulling them back when there’s pain. Looks like there’s a broken bone or two, but nothing that time can’t heal. Hwoarang gets the feeling that injuries like those are commonplace for the guy anyways. “You’re not afraid.”

 

“I’ve seen worse,” Hwoarang retorts, and adds another stick to the fire. “It’s not like I wanted to help you, alright? But the villagers have been talking about some creature that comes at night, winged and dark like some unlucky crow.”

 

The man flinches, wounded, but schools his face back into impassiveness. He seems to recognize some of the writing around him now, fingers brushing over the characters with pensive care. It is difficult to tell what he’s thinking.

 

“These are taboo spells,” he finally says.

 

“Yeah?” Hwoarang bites through a bit of rice cake. “Not sure if that matters much to someone like you.”

 

“Where I come from, you’d be put to death for making deals with such spirits.”

 

“Well, they tried to here, too.” Unperturbed, he continues to munch on his meal. He is not intimidated by how the gaze doesn’t ease up any, but still, having that kind of single-minded attention is not one he’s used to receiving from many people. Not in good ways, at least. “In any case, we’re staying here for the night. Walking down the mountain at night isn’t hard, but we don’t need any more people mistaking you as some ill-meaning goblin.”

 

“I don’t need your help,” the man says. Stubborn.

 

“Put those away though,” Hwoarang continues, gesturing lazily at the wings. “Even I can’t sweettalk my master into letting someone like you stay in the village otherwise.”

 

He half-means it as a joke, of course, mainly because he doesn’t know the extent of what the man can or cannot control. He _is_ sort of curious, though, wants to test limits now that he’s met someone who walks the boundary of two different worlds. All the other man does though is peer at him quietly, then turn his head down to concentrate. There’s the awful sound of snapping bone and shifting skin as the wings recede, slowly, slowly. Hwoarang doesn’t hear any noise that indicates pain, but the man is shaking by the end of it, worked up into a cold sweat with blood beading on his lip.

 

“Huh,” Hwoarang says smartly.

 

“You said to put them away,” the man heaves, wiping at his mouth. His teeth are white and sharp, glinting in the firelight.

 

“I did,” Hwoarang says, handing over a rice cake and looking away from those teeth. “Wasn’t expecting much from you, though.”

 

The man’s eyes flash silver, a spark of curious anger and a dare. As Hwoarang wraps coarse linen around his broad, bloodied shoulders, he continually traces one character into the ground, so much that his nail grows dark with dirt:

 

 _benevolence, mercy, mercy_.

 

As though trying to remember his name.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jin seems surprised at first when he sees Hwoarang shoot down a bird, then reconsiders, observing the lines of Hwoarang’s body beneath his clothes as he checks the river trap he’d set earlier for fish. He’s the quiet and studious kind, the kind who keeps his thoughts all too secret, the kind of person that Hwoarang normally quite hates. The way he carries himself is similar to one used to walking into and through and out of battle, tearing through lives with little more than a blink of the eye.

 

“What,” Hwoarang says as he sets down his bow and carefully pries the arrow from the bird’s body.

 

“I underestimated you,” Jin says simply.

 

“Bastard,” Hwoarang says, but doesn’t chase the conversation. His master has always told him it is better to be underestimated than figured out too easily and too soon. Trying to live the life of an ascetic seems to help a bit, but he still falls into old habits sometimes. He’s still no good.

 

They are only a day’s walk from the village now, halfway between the mountain shrine and the people beneath.

 

“You still do not fear me,” Jin says carefully, reaching one hand thoughtfully up to watch the ink on his skin move with muscle.

 

“As if I’d ever,” Hwoarang snorts, tightening the new bandages just enough to hear Jin wince. Two dark bloody maws from where wings emerge. In the dimness of dusk, they look like two ugly, ebony scars. He’s had similar injuries before, not from recurring transformations, but purging fires and flogs. He frowns and shakes the memories away. “You’re just one man. I’ve seen worse.”

 

And Hwoarang knows: black wings, a black curse. Black birds are bad luck here, yet for all his experiences with spirits, he has never quite paid much mind to superstitions. Only a fool would look at the marks on Jin’s skin and draw closer to the calamity the scripts entail, but he’s always been the sort to chase after danger.

 

He remembers truly seeing Jin yesterday at the cusp of a new night, eyes aglow, hands shaking and bloody. He recalls the excitement making his hands tremble, enough that he could scarce scratch spells into the ground, with a startling clarity that often accompanies less pleasant recollections.

 

Still; just a man at sunrise, a man at dusk.

 

He sleeps uneasily that night, wakes to find Jin peering peculiarly at his clenched fists, his bared arms. Hwoarang pulls his sleeves back down, turns to face the green tranquility of wilderness. Like this, they do not talk about each other’s scars. Jin does not hurt Hwoarang, not in the ways that a purgatory might or in the way a blade might trace his bones.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, when Jin’s nightmares are so severe that he wakes Hwoarang with all his damn thrashing, he merely sighs and shakes away the irritation at being woken so abruptly. He writes spells into the demon’s forehead, invisible ink over its third eye; a blessing, perhaps, if it were not for his selfish intentions and his selfish wishes. The shadows fade, sinking back into unmarked skin.

 

The spirits often chide him for this. He could throw away the whole world just to hold these dreams and keep them to himself, and he would not care.

 

His finger stings when he finally pulls away, red from magic and a demon’s whim. Jin doesn’t seem to recall this when he wakes in the morning to Hwoarang’s loud snoring, but he presses one palm to his head, as if to touch the lingering taboo. He traces the length of Hwoarang’s right arm, where scars line the bend of his elbow, blooming into broad strokes where fire tore his past free. All the way up to his wiry neck.

 

“Stop that,” Hwoarang says, jerking away for the hundredth time as if burned. When he turns around, Jin’s lips are curled slightly with joyless cruelty, an unending challenge.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
